Thursday, October 5, 2017

IDEAL MACHINE

This is it. The privilege
which lurks in the
margins of blind formality,

the slavish, but the easy
habits of morning—

yanking tight the same
manila
shoe laces, walking the dog

and picking
up the shit, smoking charily
by rented open windows,

boiling water
for more tea and the
eggs about to expire, and small-

talking your
way through the big proposal—introducing:
the next big thing.

This is life's
perfect, incognizant
self-writing poem;

blurred on the surface
and superficially metaphoric,

but, over time
and underneath, really
quite specific—

less like a rainbow, and more like
all its composite
rain drops.

Less like a momentary
spike
in adrenaline, and more like

the inane itch
of some days-old fury slowly
scabbing over.

This is the freest kind
of mechanism
you can hope for:

handcuffed by so much
repetition,

but turned-
on—by all the patterns.

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